


Con Amore

by onceuponatime



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Punk!Steve, i dont speak italian, it has an italian title cause i couldnt think of anything else, waiter!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 13:37:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponatime/pseuds/onceuponatime
Summary: "Bucky had spotted him as soon as he walked into the restaurant. His baggy shirt emphasised his tiny little shoulders, and when he spotted the maître-d, he subconsciously tried to cover the tattoo on the side of his head with his long fringe."Bucky works in the restaurant Steve brings all his dates to.





	Con Amore

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I haven't written fic in like 2 whole years so I know this kinda sucks?? But anyway. Here it is. You have permission to yell at me.   
> I just love the idea of lil punk ass Steve because quite frankly its hot as hell. tattoos and piercings? yes pls. So here he is.

Bucky had spotted him as soon as he walked into the restaurant. His baggy shirt emphasised his tiny little shoulders, and when he spotted the maître-d, he subconsciously tried to cover the tattoo on the side of his head with his long fringe. Bucky hadn’t realised he was staring until Clint pulled the glass he was polishing from his hand and swatted his ass with the cloth.

Bucky watched as Natasha walked him to his seat. He had a silver hoop in his left nostril and a matching one on the right side of his bottom lip. And Christ, Bucky couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, but was that _eyeliner?_ He was glad Clint was away serving table six, because he knew he had a dopey look on his face.

The guy sat down at a table for two. Whatever he had said to Natasha had her throwing her head back in laughter before dropping two wine menus on the table before weaving her way through the tables and back to her podium. He knew he was being creepy, but Bucky couldn’t help but watch as he flipped through one of the menus, his tattooed hands looking a little childish as they peeked from the bottom of his too-long sleeves. It was kind of endearing.

Clint snapped his fingers in front of Bucky’s face, reminding him that, yes, he was working, and yes, there was a pile up of dishes waiting to be delivered to his tables. He hoped no one complained about the long wait as he balanced three plates on his left arm and two on his right, making his way around the crowded restaurant with a lot less grace than Natasha had done. But nothing spilled, and everything was left at the right table, and only one person had commented on the wait. He checked the order receipts, and then with the chef. Nothing was ready, so he leaned against the wall by the partition to the kitchen and sipped at a glass of Coke.

He watched Clint walk up to the guy with the piercings. He hadn’t even noticed Clint at first, he was too busy messing with the petals on the rose placed in an old glass Coke bottle that was starting to wilt. He visibly jumped in his seat when Clint cleared his throat to get his attention, and Bucky’s heart started hammering at the sheepish smile and blush that covered his face. Clint apologised, and Bucky heard the chef ring the bell to let him know he had meals to deliver.

When Bucky looked again, the guy had one glass of wine on the table in front of him, and his phone pressed to his ear.

“Date,” Clint said, resting his ass on the wall beside Bucky’s. “But they’re nearly half an hour late. When do you think he’s gonna call it a night?”

Bucky shrugged his shoulder. “Fifteen bucks says he makes it to the hour.”

Clint scrunched his face up. “An hour?” he asked, incredulous. “No one is that desperate.” Bucky shrugged again. “Okay, I’ll take the bet but only because you’re so obviously going to lose.”

“He hasn’t even touched his wine yet.”

“Don’t you interfere, it’s my table. You stay away from him, no free refills, no nothing. I want that fifteen dollars,” Clint said, walking backwards away from Bucky and pointing a finger at him. He bumped into one of the new waitresses and sent her tray of empty beer bottles and glasses to the floor, and the clatter made everyone shoot their head up and look in their direction. The regulars continued eating – it was at least twice a day that Clint knocked something to the floor. Or blew the fuse trying to change a lightbulb. Or broke the tap on the beer while trying to change the barrel and soaking the disgusting green carpet by the bar in Heineken. It took Bucky three days and a lot of fabric cleaner to get the smell out. How Clint still worked as a waiter, he wasn’t entirely sure, but he enjoyed the company and wasn’t going to complain.

When they finally got the shards of glass cleared up, Bucky checked tattooed guy’s table to see how much wine he had gotten through. But the wine was untouched, a ten-dollar bill tucked under the glass, and he was gone.

“Fifteen dollars,” Clint said, walking towards Bucky and wiping his hand on the white apron tied around his waist. Bucky didn’t say anything, just dragged Clint towards the staff room to grab the first aid kit that probably hadn’t been used before Clint started to work there.

***

It was a Saturday night. Natasha was busy at the door, a queue of people waiting on a seat nearly reaching to the sidewalk. Clint was stuck behind the bar, which never usually happened but for some reason, on this Saturday, Brooklyn wanted to _drink_.

So Bucky barely had time to breathe between running from the bar to tables to the kitchen and back to tables. The back of his neck was sweating against his starched collar and his hair was sticking to his forehead. He lost his pen three times, once when it was tucked into his bun and not behind his ear where he usually had it. His feet were sore from not having a minute to sit down since his shift started. And he had to deal with a touchy-feely woman who went through drinks like nobody’s business and sent her food back to the kitchen on three separate occasions. Bucky barely held back the urge to spit on her stupid hamburger the third time he had to drop it off at her table.

“Sorry about the delay, hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” he said almost out of breath as he reached for his pen and scribbled ‘table 18’ at the top of the pad. “What can I get for you?” he asked, and nearly choked on his tongue when his eyes met the bluest eyes he had ever seen, slightly obscured by glasses with thick lenses. Bucky recognised him by the hand tattoos – the one on the side of his head had been obscured by a slightly overgrown undercut. And Bucky had been right the last time; he _was_ wearing eyeliner.

He hadn’t even noticed the guy sitting on the other side of the table until he spoke. Bucky fumbled with his pen and turned to face him. “We’ll both have the wings to start, sauce on the side. Then I’ll have the steak. Rare, please. Not medium rare, rare. With fries and onion rings. What about you, Steve?”

Steve, Bucky repeated in his head. Steve.

“Uhm,” Steve said, looking down at his menu again. “I’ll just have the burger, with uh, with fries.”

“Good choice,” Bucky said, flashing Steve a grin. He could feel the other man staring at him and he was built like a house, and Bucky didn’t really want his face rearranged for flirting with someone else’s date, so he cleared his throat and asked; “Any drinks with that?”

“Scotch, neat,” The Wall said, and Bucky scribbled it down at the bottom.

“And for you?” he asked Steve.

“Soda is fine, whatever you have.”

“Got it,” Bucky said, jotting it down before sticking his pen back into his bun and picking the menus from the table. Steve said thanks. His date did not.

Bucky barely had time to think about Steve again, only when delivered the wings to his table, He was busy serving a table of ten, so Clint was the one who delivered their mains, taking a break from bartending to lend a hand. He made a passing comment to Bucky about ‘bet guy’ being back, and this time he wasn’t alone. He made sure to remind Bucky that he was owed fifteen dollars.

It was late when it finally started to die down, later than usual. Natasha flipped the ‘closed’ sign on the door and made her way behind the bar to talk to Clint while people started to gather coats and bags and push plates of half eaten and melting desserts away from them. The romantic lighting was turned off, and Bucky groaned at the mess on the floor that the full light showed up. How adults managed to make such a goddamned mess, he never knew.

With most of the dirty plates delivered to the kitchen and a few scragglers finishing off their coffees (at eleven o’clock, Bucky couldn’t help but think bitterly), he joined Clint and Natasha at the bar and accepted the glass of god knows what that was shoved across the bar and into his hand.

“Tonight was Hell,” he said, resting his forehead on the shiny mahogany. “My feet are _killing_ me.”

Natasha scoffed. “Stand in heels for eight hours, then come talk to me.” She warily eyed Clint, who was under the bar messing with one of the kegs. Bucky was about to reply when he was interrupted, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it.

“Sorry, is the bar still open?”

Bucky lifted his head from the bar and nearly fell off the barstool. His eyes probably widened to twice their normal size. Steve was something in the dim light, but in full view he was gorgeous. His black Henley had to be at least two sizes too big, and his jeans were tight on his legs. Bucky thought he was going to have a stroke. Natasha grinned wickedly at him. She reminded him of a wolf when she looked at him like that. She didn’t miss a thing, and Bucky mooning over someone wouldn’t fly under her radar for too long.

“I’m sure Clint can get you something,” Bucky finally managed to say after a silence that was far too stretched out to be socially acceptable. “Clint,” he said a little louder and rapped his knuckles on the bar. Clint stood up, but not without whacking his head off the edge of the bar first. The glasses that were on the bar clanged against one another.

“Oh fuck,” Clint yelled. “Oh fuck, I’m bleeding. Oh shit, it hurts, Nat is it bleeding, just tell me, oh God.”

Nat rolled her eyes before grabbing a tea towel and filling it with ice from the ice bucket. She thrust it at Clint. “What were you told about messing underneath the bar? This is the second time this week. You can’t afford to lose anymore brain cells.”

Clint scowled at her before pressing the makeshift ice pack to the back of his head. He winced from the mixture of cold and pain. “Who wanted what?” he asked, glaring at Nat. But there was no real heat behind it, and she blew him a kiss.

“It’s okay, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you and make you knock your head against the…” Steve said, gesturing to the bar. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and Bucky could see more tattoos.

“You didn’t make Clint do anything. It’s not a Saturday night if he doesn’t give himself a concussion,” Bucky said, and took a drink of whatever concoction was in his glass. It tasted like acid, but he took another mouthful anyway.

Clint threw the wet towel on the bar and felt at the back of his head with his fingers. “What can I get ya, buddy?”

“Just a whiskey. Neat, please,” Steve said. He fiddled with his lip ring and Bucky’s stomach did something funny.

“And for your date?” Clint asked, reaching for one of the tumblers and filling it from one of the bottles mounted on the back wall.

“Oh, uhm, he’s uh, he’s gone.” Clint nodded, and made the whiskey a double. “Thanks,” Steve said with a shy smile, reaching for his wallet.

Clint cut him off. “On the house. I only had to deal with that guy for five minutes; you deserve that for dealing with him all night.” Bucky wasn’t sure what happened, but it must have been something gross. It took a lot to make someone like Clint dislike you.

Steve laughed, loud and heartfelt. “He was a jerk, kept rubbing my legs with his feet and telling me what he was gonna do with me when we got back to his place.”

“I hate feet,” Bucky said.

“I like ‘em cocky,” Clint said.

Steve shook his head and laughed. “Me too, with the feet thing. And man, not this kind of cocky. I think he was convinced he had the penis of a God or some shit. I mean, his name is Brock, what did I expect?” He threw back the whiskey and placed the empty glass back on the bar. “Told him I had work tomorrow to get out of coffee at his place.” He used his fingers to make air quotes around the word coffee. Bucky laughed.

“And do you have work tomorrow?” Bucky asked.

“Nope,” Steve smiled, just as his phone pinged, “That’s my ride. I gotta go, thanks for the drink!”

“Don’t even say it,” Bucky muttered, watching Steve push through the door.

Natasha feigned offence. “I wouldn’t dream of it, James.”

 

***

 

“Jesus, where does he get them all?” Clint asked as Steve walked into the restaurant with another date. Natasha led them to one of the tables near the back, which was closer to where Bucky usually chilled when he had a moment to catch his breath. She winked at him when she caught his eye, and he wanted to give her the middle finger. He wanted to keep his job more, though, so settled on looking at Clint. “Dude has more dates than anyone I’ve ever met before. Different person every time, too.”

“Have you seen him?” Bucky asked unironically.

“I’ve got table nineteen, so I’ll be a good friend and let you take lover boy.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky grumbled, pulling his notepad out of the pocket of his apron and heading towards Steve.

Steve looked up as Bucky approached, and the smile on his face nearly bright enough to light up all of Brooklyn. Bucky didn’t know whether to cry or smile back so he went with the less weird option and smiled back.

“Hey fellas, what can I get ya both?” He asked. He pulled his pen from the elastic tying up his hair and sighed when he felt it come loose form the knot.

“Hey Buck,” Steve said, and pointed to him with his thumb. “This is the guy that gives me the best burgers. Also when you’re stuck with asshole dates, sometimes you get free drinks.”

“Yeah and you seem to make a habit of the latter. How many disasters have we had to rescue you from?” Bucky asked with a small chuckle, but felt something pull at his insides as he said it. Steve’s eyes twinkled with something, and the man sitting across from him laughed. A loud belly laugh that had him clutching at his stomach and throwing his head back.

“Man, you do date some stinkers. That guy Alex? And Brock? I cannot _believe_ you agreed to go out with him in the first place. Dude has ‘asshole’ written all over him and those stupid shirts that he wears to obviously show off muscle. I mean, be classy about it, man.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Buck, this is Sam. He’s not a date, because despite what he says, I do actually have standards.”

“Mhmm,” Sam said, waggling his eyebrows in Steve’s direction. “And I surpass all of ‘em.”

“I’m sure you do,” Bucky said with a laugh. He couldn’t’ help but notice how pink Steve’s face had gotten. “So, the usual for you, Steve? Or you feeling like branching out? Trying something a little different?”

“I think he wants to try something he’s never tried before. Be a little brave. Take a chance,” Sam said, looking at his menu and smiling. There was a loud thud, followed by a shout of “Ow!” from Sam. Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll have the pasta, please,” Steve said, his eyes not leaving Sam’s face.

After taking their orders and dropping off their drinks, Bucky heard Sam say “That is him, right? With the ponytail?”

He tried not to dwell on it too much.

 

***

He was standing at the bar with Clint when he saw Steve and Sam leave. It had become somewhat of a tradition for Steve to join them at the bar and bitch about his date, and Bucky pretended it was the fact that Steve was messing with a ten-week tradition that was bothering him, and not the fact that he didn’t get to listen to Steve’s dorky puns or rants about television shows as he was collecting dishes.

Steve turned before he left, raising his hand to wave goodbye. He smiled at Bucky, but it looked a little forced. Bucky ignored this fact and focused instead on the gravy that had crusted into one of the table cloths. He didn’t notice when Steve’s face fell, and Sam had to pull him out the door.

It took a long time to clear the bigger tables towards the front of the restaurant, and by the time he made it to the ones at the back his mood had failed considerable. His was covered in sauces and spilled drink, and someone had walked cake into the carpet and that was going to be a _bitch_ to get out.

So he almost didn’t notice the napkin sitting on Steve’s side of the table, neatly folded and pristine. It hadn’t been used to wipe up as much as a water drop. But there was ink seeping through from the inside, so Bucky put his bussing tray on the table behind him and picked it up.

_“Sam was here tonight as my wingman but I lost my nerve and this is the only way he’ll let me leave without causing a scene. I’d like to take you out on a date I hopefully won’t need alcohol to forget, please call,_

_Steve”_

And there was Steve’s phone number, written underneath in the same impeccable handwriting. There was a little burger doodled in the corner.

Bucky smiled for the rest of his shift.

 

***

“Lover boy is here again,” Clint said, grabbing two menus as he watched Natasha lead Steve to his seat. His smile was the biggest Clint had ever seen it, and he made a mental note to grab two glasses of champagne from the bar after he dropped off the menus. Although he knew the two men didn’t need it.

Steve always got a burger, and Bucky knew the menu like the back of his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! It means a lot!
> 
> Come cry over Bucky with me on tumblr although I dont really know how to work it that well but my url is allenp0e


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